Clarity
by a red burn
Summary: Tag fic to 1.20 Nothing Personal. FitzSimmons have a quiet talk after everyone goes to sleep and some things are revealed. Fluff. Sort of.


Notes: I wrote this last night before going to sleep, so mostly a s_pur of the moment I need to get this all down before I lose inspiration_ kind of thing. I'm just so tired of seeing negativity regarding these two from the fandom that I needed some fluff. They're adorable and close and they love each other, why anyone would question that is beyond me. I'm not worried about the finale at all. Bring it on, I know it's going to be great for us, even if painful.

This is a post 1.20 Nothing Personal tag fic. Any mistakes are mine, this was not reviewed by a beta.

Enjoy!

**_x_**

"Fitz? Are you awake?"

He sits up, her voice a welcoming whisper in the solitude he's in. A familiar sound that reverberates against the walls of his chest, that makes the gloom holding his heart hostage dissipate, makes him breathe just a little easier.

"Yeah," he says, pushing himself up in his bed until he's sitting against the headboard and squinting in the dark in her direction. Her bed is placed barely a couple of feet away from his but it's still not close enough.

"I can't sleep."

Neither can he. There's a tornado of thoughts raging in his head, memories swirling around and refusing to disappear, coming apart and rearranging themselves in details, a different reel of feelings and emotions every time he tries to keep them away. Jemma's near death. Ward's betrayal. The loss of everything he has come to know. His family unit coming apart and then back together, piece by piece.

Their room is big, two beds and a desk, mirror against the opposite wall, windows to the sparkling pool outside. And it's not enough. He never thought he'd miss his tiny bunk in the bus, but he does. He misses the round window where he could see the sky, watch the world move around him as the plane floated in the air. He misses the clutter of his tiny desk, he misses sliding his door open to see the rest of his newfound family bickering over a board game. He misses the sheets that weren't washed often and would hold Jemma's perfume long after she had left.

"I know. My brain won't stop calculating and processing and still trying to make sense of what happened to us. It's quite upsetting, really. I'm tired." And the last words come out slow, in a breathy whisper, as if the mere action of speaking them sucks him of all his energy.

"Don't look."

"What am I supposed to even look at? It's pitch black in here," Fitz arguments, even while he hears shuffling and realizes a moment too late that Jemma has left her bed for his. She's wearing his shirt, the day's sweat and exhaustion probably sticking to it like cigarette smoke, but she had nothing to sleep in and a shirt that smelled of him and barely covered her bum had been better than jeans.

They lost everything, he thinks, their belongings, their jobs, their lives, their friends, but when she tells him to scoot over and takes the space next to him, his mattress dipping gently as she sinks down, he knows that he'll never lose her. Fitz shifts closer to her, lets the warmth of her skin drift towards him, tease his arm as it nearly touches hers until he feels the tip of her fingers seeking comfort, sliding over his hand until they find purchase and their hands are joined. His heart does a little flip, he can't help it, the unreasonable, inappropriate reactions his body has to her, the way his center of gravity shifts and he feels like falling even while sitting down. Fitz holds her hand tighter, hopes it will be enough to keep him afloat.

He turns to look at her, but in the darkness of the room all he can make out is the shape of her jaw, a shadow against a darker shade. "Everything will turn out okay, you know."

"Will it, really?" It's not a question, not something she wants an answer for, but resignation. She's slowly giving up and it's in moments like this that Fitz wants to believe they can fix everything, they can make things go back to the way they were, to see her laugh about one silliness or another, to see her eyes sparkle when they get to go out in the field together, the smile when she finds something new to study. He wants her happy and carefree.

"We'll fix this, Jemma, I know we will."

She rests her head against his shoulder and goosbumps rise all over his skin. He's naked waist up and he can't help feeling self-conscious, even though she's seen him like that more times than he can count. He's aware now, highly sensitive to her skin in direct contact with his, to her fingers rubbing against his, her breath fanning gently over him, the way her feet are cold and snuggled against his leg, the way he wants to pull her under the covers, kiss her senseless.

He's in love with her.

It didn't hit him like a world shattering, life changing discovery where one day he opened his eyes and thought _bloody hell I'm in love with Jemma_, but it came slowly like the flow of the ocean, the early dawn wave that moves slowly into shore, its tiny particles of water covering his skin cell by cell until his feet are stuck deep in the sand. And it never ebbs away.

He doesn't know exactly when it started to happen; maybe something came loose the first time he lost her, something invisible that fell out of the plane with her, leaving a bit of his chest hollow, that was unleashed the second time he thought she was dead. Maybe it had always been there since the first moment they met, hidden in the deep crannies of his heart, humming in the back of his mind just waiting for the right moment to awaken.

"I don't know what I would do either, you know." Her voice is low, soft, a ghostly whisper caressing his ear.

"Do what?" He worries he missed bits of their conversation, but she makes herself comfortable against his chest and he forgets what he should be thinking about.

"If I lost you. I don't know who I am without you, Fitz, and that worries me."

_FitzSimmons_. They have been defined as one for so long he eventually stopped thinking about it. He doesn't know who he is without her either and it doesn't scare him anymore. He almost lost her twice, contemplated life without her twice, wondered how he'd move on, how he'd get himself up and be only _Fitz._ How he'd be able to replace the hole in his chest and fill it up with something else other than emptiness, than the never ending excruciating pain of having a vital organ removed and been left to die afterwards.

In the end, it's quite a simple concept, really: he doesn't know how to be without her either, his existence becomes pointless.

"I hope you never have to find out, Jemma," he answers, _because I have been there and it's the worst I have ever been_, but those last words never come out. "Now try and get some sleep, yeah? Who knows when we'll be able to shut our eyes again."

Instead of moving back to her bed, like he expects her to, Jemma pulls the covers up around them and slides down his bed. Fit has no choice but to follow, lying down with her, shifting around the bed until they're both comfortable and her hand rests against his heart, and their heads are sharing the same pillow. They lay facing each other, feet tangled together and their breath mixing and fading in between.

"Good night, Fitz."

"Good night, Simmons."


End file.
